


Upend the Sky

by codenamecynic



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Rain Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 11:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16618403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codenamecynic/pseuds/codenamecynic
Summary: Taliesin and Cort take advantage of a rainstorm after a month at sea.





	Upend the Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fionavar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionavar/gifts).



> A second birthday gift for the lovely Perahn <3 
> 
> If you're following [The Swordmaster's Son](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15688893/chapters/36454428), this story is set sometime around year 23.

They’re a single day from making port, and Cort has been staring at him for three.

Not that Cort stares. He observes, _closely_ , with the kind of vested interest reserved for a wolf circling sheep, hungrily anticipating the moment one foolish creature drifts from the flock. Waiting for the moment to strike.

That sounds more aggressive in his head than it should; Cort is not a predator any more than he himself is prey, but the weight of Cort’s eyes on his back has been something almost tangible, fingers in his hair or a hot tongue licking up his spine, until all he has to do is look for a moment into the depths of those blue, blue eyes and he forgets about everything else. Like breathing, or eating, or existing, conversations stuttering out left and right until Marv can’t even stand to be around him, rolling his eyes and muttering under his breath as he stomps off to bother someone else.

It also means that he feels like he’s been hard for _days_ , his body aching, restless in his bunk at night because the summer storms they’ve been sailing through haven’t permitted him one blessed moment of peace to find a quiet corner, and-

The moral of the story is that Cort Raghnall is a miserable bastard, and Taliesin loves him more than anything in the whole world.

Still, that doesn’t keep him from being just a little bit spiteful.

The sky is pink with the setting sun by the time they make the harbor, the air thick and close, heavy with the threat of rain. Cort stands with his pack over one shoulder at the bottom of the gangplank wearing that narrow, lupine expression again, waiting for Taliesin to descend and Taliesin, because he’s a terrible person who consistently acts against his own self interest in pursuit of something that can only vaguely be categorized as revenge, takes his time.

Drags it out. Checks in with the captain, helps someone shift a crate, makes small talk with Jeffers until Cort literally rolls his eyes, takes Taliesin by the sleeve of his shirt and steers him into the street.

“I see what you’re doing.”

“I couldn't possibly imagine what you mean.”

Cort smirks. It shouldn’t be allowed. Not on that face, with that mouth, those lips. It’s already a bit too much, too tempting, too full of mystery and promises of things to come, and he is fucking hard in his goddamn trousers. _Again._

_Fuck._

It’s so stupid that it’s funny, and whatever he would have said is lost when they turn and face each other in the road and the sky serendipitously upends over them. Rain pours down in sheets, fat droplets falling with a force hard enough to drive divots into still-soft earth, and Taliesin looks at Cort through the onslaught and just starts to laugh.

Ridiculous.

The street is clear, most folk smarter than they are about what the weather portends, and they run splashing through the byways, weaving through buildings, chasing each other as much as they're running for cover. Taliesin is always a little bit faster, just a hand's breadth out of reach, but he lets Cort catch him in the doorway of a boarded up warehouse, succumbing to the press of stone against his back and Cort's warm, wet body across the front of his as he's tackled none too gently into the wall.

Cort eases back immediately, always pointlessly leery of being too rough with him, but not too far. His eyes are dark, water sparkling off the curl of his lashes, as though the chase and the fact that Taliesin is still foolishly laughing has done nothing to quell the desire that lingers there.

“You are _troublesome_.”

Taliesin beams, unapologetic. “I know.”

Cort sighs, curls a hand around the back of his neck to bury fingers in the dampness of his hair. “I want you.”

“I know that too.”

Cort has long since learned that sometimes the only way to make him stop laughing is to kiss him, though the effort meets a mixed result. It's hard to compete with the happiness he feels in this moment, the freedom, wild against the storm weather that crashes just beyond them, water pouring down in sheets from the eaves like a screen. It's only when Cort presses full against him does his humor fade, starved out by the hungry yearn that makes his body respond in kind.

He has to touch, to feel, to reaffirm for himself for the thousandth time that this is all real, but when his hand slips toward the buckle of his belt, Cort hesitates. “Taliesin-”

“I heard you.”

It's a challenge more than a confirmation and Cort takes it exactly as it was meant, a fleeting frown of annoyance flitting across his features before he sighs and gives in, like he always does, reeling Taliesin in for another hard kiss.

And there is nothing like being kissed after a month at sea, like being touched, _finally_ , when his whole body aches for relief like its been bent into odd angles, tipping toward Cort like a compass pulls north. Everything is twisted too tightly, an over-taut rope stretching and straining to hold firm, fiber by fiber fraying.

Polite young gentlemen don't carry on like this in the street but he couldn't give two fucks, hasn't been one of those in years. He's much more concerned with getting Cort's cock out of his pants, in Cort getting _him_ half out of his shirt, in the feeling of smooth skin over the coil of hard muscle, teeth against his throat bared sharp and white like wolves’.

“I have done nothing but think about this for three fucking days.” Cort's voice is rough as gravel, muffled against his flesh. It makes him shiver, careen his head back until it smacks against the mossy stone.

“I can tell.”

“Are you really going to make me dig through our bags and-”

“You don't have to.”

“But-”

“I said, _you don't have to.”_

Taliesin raises his eyebrows meaningfully as Cort stares at him without comprehension, the realization of what he's insinuating not seeming to fully dawn until Cort slides a hand down his back, into the flagging waistband of his trousers and finds him slick and ready.

“You- when did you-”

“Before we left the ship.” Taliesin winces as long fingers push in to stretch him open, testing the truth of his words. “I- _ah._ I thought this might happen.”

The arm banded about his hips flexs hard enough to keep Taliesin flush against him, pinned between his body and the wall. Even in the fading light he can see Cort start to come apart, blue eyes ink dark with pupils blown wide, breath quick and chest tight as he flexes his wrist and ruthlessly curls his fingers, calloused fingertips scrubbing hard over that spot inside him that makes the whole world start to wobble.

“You thought I might fuck you in the street?”

His voice is as low and as rough as his hands, and it makes Taliesin start to shiver. “I thought you might not want to wait.”

“You are-” he doesn't even seem to know what he's trying to say, throat working when he swallows hard, staring at Taliesin like he isn't quite sure what he is, a genius or a fool. It's possible he's both, what with his good ideas and their terrible execution, but before he has time to doubt Cort shakes himself, shakes his head, and turns him around.

“You aren’t wrong,” Cort admits amid the rustle of his clothing. He pushes Taliesin against the wall and holds him there, less than gentle now, hand gripping at the back of his neck and his body close behind, the swollen length of him burning against his flesh as he ruts his hips. “Completely mad, but not wrong.”

Taliesin shudders and braces himself against the stone; he's not even in yet and it already feels like he could come. “Cort-”

“For fuck's sake- stop fucking moving, I don't want to hurt you.”

“You won't,” he insists, the words tumbling over and over in a chant. “You won't, you won't, you won't-”

It still does hurt, a little bit, like it does every time after so long, but he can't bring himself to care. He has _missed_ this, has _dreamed_ about this, and it doesn’t occur to him to think for a moment about where they are, how exposed, their only privacy a screen of weather, the shadows in the doorway, and his own struggling effort to stay still and perfectly silent. By the time Cort seats himself fully within him, methodical and slow, his fingers bite into the crumbling mortar between stones, eyes closed, lost in the smell of salt and damp earth and the pressure building at the base of his spine that leaves his knees weak and trembling.

Cort holds him so tight against his body he can hardly move, flush from hip to shoulder, mouth pressed against the crook of his neck where his shirt has been pulled askew. Cort balls the soaked fabric in one fist and holds it against the center of Taliesin’s chest, out of the way, his free hand sliding firm and possessive down his stomach to curl around his cock. His rhythm has not suffered for lapse in practice, timing stroking hand with the snap of hips, and its all Taliesin can do to hold on, one hand on Cort's wrist and the other reaching back to clutch his thigh, fingers tangled into the loosened fabric of his trousers.

He can feel Cort’s breath against his skin, hot and shivering, and he cranes his neck until it twinges to find his mouth. It makes him slow his pace, kissing him, stroking him, fucking him, heat and sensation spread all across his body until every nerve is a lit candle and he feels like he’s glowing, or burning, utterly consumed.

Cort shudders, arms threatening to crack his ribs as they constrict around him, the snap of his hips harder and faster until he’s forced to brace himself against the wall or be driven into it.

 _“Fuck,_ I just want to- you are _so_ fucking-” He’s close, Taliesin can hear it in his voice, the low tight growl underlying the rough words that are still somehow so full of raw emotion that they make him want to both laugh and beg to come.

“I should make you wait. I should make you wait and walk across this city hard, and fucked, and full of my-”

 _“Cort.”_ His name is a clenched down plea curling out from the constricting column of his throat, already close to coming off that threat alone. He doesn’t have enough good sense to know whether or not he actually wants Cort to follow through with it; everything sounds too good, too real, too possible when coupled with Cort’s mouth, Cort’s hands, the slick, heavy feeling of Cort's cock in its endless movement. He can't ever trust his judgement in the moment.

“Is that what you want?”

“What I _want_ is to have you in a proper bed, all to myself, for the next three fucking days.”

“Such a traditionalist.”

“Gods, shut _up_ Taliesin.”

That does make him laugh then, his voice low and breathy of its own accord. Cort groans when he starts to work himself backward to meet his thrusts, encouraging within the scant space he has to move, caught between hand and hips. Taliesin chokes off a sound as Cort sinks his teeth into his shoulder, hand moving hard and fast in time with the deep, smooth strokes that stretch him open, dragging him toward the edge so fast he barely has time to think, to ask permission.

“Come for me, Taliesin,” he says, and it is _not_ a request. The result is automatic, and violent, the edges of his vision speckled with stars as he spills himself into Cort's grip, all the muscles in his thighs and stomach tense to the point of pain. He empties himself in wave after agonizing wave that rob him of the ability to keep silent, gasping out his pleasure against the roar of the rain. It rolls on and on like the crash of waves, paralyzing and all consuming until he can't even tell when Cort pulls himself free and comes with a cry of his own, hot and sticky into his fist.

He can’t do anything for a moment that feels like an age, shuddering through the aftershocks, sagging as Cort pulls away. It’s all he can do to pull up his pants again, leaving them loose and undone as he lets the wall take his weight, turning himself around to see Cort washing his hands in a stream of water off the rooftop. He wants to laugh again but he can’t quite find the energy yet, still managing a smile when Cort turns to look at him, pointlessly drying his hands on his damp trousers.

“Am I in trouble?”

“I haven’t decided.” He can’t tell from the tone of his voice whether or not Cort is serious or simply playing with him, though his mouth is soft, loving when he draws Taliesin near, kissing his forehead and then his lips. “You make me crazy.”

“Then I’m doing my job.”

“That’s certainly one way to look at it.” Cort leans back again, frowning faintly when he takes Taliesin’s chin in his hand, lifting it to look into his face. “Are you alright?”

“Of course. Did you enjoy that?”

He needn’t have asked, and the look Cort gives him says as much, some cross between disapproval and an effort not to smile. It makes Taliesin’s grin all the wider until Cort just sighs and leans in to kiss him again. “I need a drink.”

“And a bath.”

“And a bed.”

“Tired out, old man?”

Cort’s eyes narrow at the jest. “Don’t think I won’t remember this,” he says, ominously mild, the wolf’s grin lurking in the shadow of his smile. It makes Taliesin swallow hard, his mouth suddenly dry and his cock, the traitor thing, instantly interested.

“If you don’t, I’ll remind you.”

“You really are impossible.”

“I know.”

And it isn’t as if Cort doesn’t know it too, shaking his head as he leans in to draw Taliesin close when the chill of the wind whistling off the sea makes him shiver in his wet clothes, folding him in against his chest. Nevermind the damp; Cort is always warm, a refuge, a haven safe enough to curl himself inside.

“You’re cold,” he accuses when Taliesin presses his nose to the crook of his neck, head set against his shoulder. “We should go.”

“Mmn. In a minute.”

Cort laughs softly against his ear, brushes his lips across the wild curl of hair at his temple. “I don’t think it’s going to stop raining any time soon.”

He must still seem playful, silly rather than sentimental. That suits him fine. Not everything has to be serious, not when they can just _be,_ this moment theirs and theirs alone.

“I don’t care.”

There’s a beat, a pause, and he could kick himself for being careless, always making himself a cause for concern.

“Taliesin...? Are you-?”

Cort’s voice is gentle, heartachingly so, and he backpedals quickly, puts a smile in his voice. “I’m fine. I’ve just always liked it when it rains.”

“Well, there is quite the view.”

They can’t see anything from where they are, just the gray back of another building, water streaming off the roof and puddling in muddy wallows in the street, but when he tips his head up to lift an incredulous eyebrow at the love of his young ridiculous life, Cort's eyes are just for him. It shorts out whatever stupid thing he might have said, makes him want to do something equally foolish, like blush. He doesn't though, just holds that steady blue gaze until it's too much to bear, catching glimpses of himself in their depths like silvery fish beneath the waves.

"I love you,” he says, and looks away.

Whether or not Cort knows what to do with that, he can’t tell. He doesn’t say anything, just lifts a hand after a long moment to curl his fingers against Taliesin’s cheek, a quiet acknowledgement of something they both know has always been true.


End file.
